Don't Forgive
by xXxItsDarkOutsidexXx
Summary: Roxas knew it was his fault. Knew it but didn't care. Because he was selfish.


**Don't Forgive by xXxItsDarkOutsidexXx **

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Roxas. Nor do I own Naminé. But I wish I did… because, I mean, who wouldn't want to?

**Summary:** Roxas knew it was his fault. Knew it but didn't care. Because he was selfish.

**The author would like you to note: **This is my first "published" fanfiction. Be as mean as you want to be. I won't cry. I promise.

And also, Lior means 'my light' in Hebrew.

* * *

><p>If Roxas was honest with himself—which he always tried to be (at least on the inside)—he would have to admit it was kind of pathetic. Because he knew. He knew that for all intents and purposes that it was all his fault. It was he who ended it. Not because he thought she deserved better, no, she was worthy of a better explanation than that. It was because he knew that he had done the exact wrong thing—Roxas did the wrong thing a lot, and at least had the decency to realize it—and she had forgiven him every time… he was tired of her forgiving him though. And like everything else about the situation that he would not admit out loud, he knew, deep down in her intensely pure heart, she was tired of it too.<p>

Slowing to a stop Roxas glanced up at her dark house. If you wanted to get technical it wasn't hers anymore, but in his mind, it always would be.

It looked the same, mostly, with a few minor changes. The picket fence no longer matched the house, but the white rose bushes contrasted nicely with it now. The driveway was empty, absent of her brother's blue jeep with its array of bumper stickers (all declaring the ways in which he loved the earth, all people, and puppies) and surf board mounted to the back, ready for any of his spontaneous beach visits. The thing that hurt the most though, was the thing that truly shattered the already ruined picture— because with the car gone and a brown fence it could still be _hers_— was the missing ball of black fluff curled up on the stairs or twisting around the banister of the porch.

Lior was gone.

Such an ironically sweet name. Of course that was why he had named her that.

Tapping the gate slightly Roxas slid into the front yard, trudged down the walk way, and dumped himself in a heap on the steps.

He slid his phone out of his pocket and stared down at it, it had been ringing considerably less than he was used to in the last few months.

She wasn't going to call him anymore. Their contact was left solely to him.

Flipping the cell open he slowly typed the memorized number; she had always been on speed dial but he was hoping he'd chicken out before the final digit. He didn't. He just sat staring at the numbers, chanting them in his head. Thumb resting on the call button.

How many times had he called her? He couldn't remember. Didn't want to. All he knew was that it was an embarrassingly large number and that it was unfair to her.

Backspacing one at a time Roxas closed the phone, re-opened it and typed the number again, hitting call before he changed his mind.

He imagined the chorus of _Semi-Charmed Life_ (his favorite song way back in fourth grade when he still listened to music like that and had no idea what they were talking about) playing, maybe muffled in her purse or bouncing off the walls of her bedroom. Imagined her pulling it out, saddened already by the sound, but checking anyway just to be sure…

It rings three times.

He pictures her telling her friends she has to take this, excusing herself from the dinner table, turning away from her brother in the car as she presses her finger to her other ear… sitting on her porch.

It rings a fifth time.

Maybe she won't answer. Maybe this time she'll be smart and be busy, and then forget to call him back later.

There's a soft click.

He closes his eyes. Not today. Not this time. Maybe not ever.

"Hey." Her voice is soft, but not angry or sad. He can hear the small smile in her voice. Happy he called. That he remembered.

He hates himself right then.

The words hang in the air; suspended by a thread of hope so strong nothing could ever even make it sway, let alone brake. But it makes _him_ sick.

He wants to scream at her. Tell her it's not real, not anymore. Tell her to forget him and move on, like the rest of them have. Tell her he's not going to apologize and he doesn't want to hear her say sorry either. He wants to cry and beat his head against the pillar next to him, bang his fists against the railing, kick his feet against the stairs.

Dying as he screams to the world about the unfairness of love. Asking why anyone would stupidly want something so much that hurt so bad.

She waits. He rests his head on his knees.

He wants to save her. Propel her to the light of the world he shadows. Let her spin off and away from him.

But she won't let him. And he won't do it.

Selfish, selfish bastard.

He adjusts the phone against his ear. "Hey," he sighs. Giving in.

"How are you?" She sounds concerned. Honestly. Purely. Lovingly. _Concerned_.

He doesn't deserve that. Because he is, and always has been, a selfish, selfish bastard.

"Fine." There wasn't much to talk about anymore. It was over. He knew it. She knew it. He knew she knew it—he had made sure—and still… Still he sat on her old porches' steps, reminiscent of the old days, angry at the distance between then and now.

"Naminé I—" He couldn't say it. Couldn't apologize. _Again_. And hear her sat it was okay and she forgives him. _Again_.

She doesn't respond at first.

He can hear her humming though, disapprovingly.

"Rox—" She starts, quiet, stern.

"No listen. Really." He can hear the begging in his voice, raised, insistence and then more quietly, losing his nerve, "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Roxas licks his lips, clasping his phone in both hands and holds it so tightly to his ear he hears buttons beep and he's sure the impression will be there for at least another hour. "I'm sorry, Naminé. Really. I am so sorry."

She's silent for a moment. He feels alone suddenly. For the first time in weeks he actually lets himself wish he could hold her. She sighs and the resulting noise tickles his ear.

"I know you are, Roxas."

And that… that hurts more than forgiveness.

"I know you're sorry—"

Isn't it better though? Isn't that progress?

Begging. Pleading.

"I'm sorry too."

No it is not.

Neither speak.

All the things he wanted to say to her. All he had planned to tell her. It isn't important anymore. Superficial.

Roxas pulls his knees up another step and rests his elbows on them, "Naminé will you—? Will you be here for the holiday?"

She doesn't answer again. She doesn't answer for a long time. But the silence gives him his answer.

_…Yes. _The silence says. _But not to see you._

"Goodbye, Roxas," she says. Ending the torture for the millionth night he's called her.

"Goodnight," he says, "Goodnight, Naminé."

There's a long moment when he feels she wants to say more.

_I love you, Roxas. I'll see you tomorrow. Sweet dreams._

But that was a long time ago. A different fairy tale. The one that was supposed to end happy.

The soft click tells him she's gone.

And the torture is still there, only now it's different. Now it's just his.

He imagines her shutting the phone, scooping Lior off the arm chair he knows she kept for her new room, and throwing herself at the bed, crying her quiet tears, her blue eyes shimmering like all the dying stars he's killed. He watches in his mind as she returns to the table as though it were a friend. Goes back inside without a tear in her eye. Sings along with her brother so he won't see her cry. Turns to her friends with a smile …

And those hidden sobs.

The ones that weren't there until she met him.

Roxas backhands his tears, because he doesn't cry anymore. It's just not done. And he wishes he could be strong, but then he wouldn't want to at the same time.

To be strong for everyone who breaks down and cries.

But he had been good at faking it at least, until he'd met her.

A star blinks out. And he's just seen a heart die, one he'd killed a long time ago, but hadn't realized it because she had never let it show.

He'll stay at the porch. Stay until the lady who owns the house now comes home. She'll find him curled up on her steps again, with a phone still pressed to his ear and his face buried in his arms. She'll yell at him and he'll hop the fence and run away, but she won't call the cops this time either.

Not after seeing his tears.


End file.
